Page 63 of Dark Night of the Soul

My hand went to the blade at my side without thought. Too late, I realized the movement behind me wasn’t fear.

I never reached it.

The world slammed sideways.

My back hit the wall hard enough to rattle my teeth. The knife was gone before I registered the loss. Wrenched free with perfect precision. Cold steel kissed my throat as her forearm locked me in place. Not crushing. Exactly enough.

Too fast.

Her eyes were blown wide, pupils flared like she was staring down the barrel of something only she could see. Power hummed in the air, sharp and contained. Not wild. Controlled.

Trained.

And then—as suddenly—she froze.

Her fingers flexed once—tightening. Then loosening.

Like she’d found something and let it go.

The pressure vanished. She stumbled back like she’d been burned, hands lifting away from me as if they weren’t hers. The blade clattered to the floor between us.

“I—” Her breath hitched. “I didn’t—”

She stared at her hands. They were shaking.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered.

I didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the weapon. Didn’t close the distance.

Because I knew that hold.

I’d taught it once. A lifetime ago. To soldiers who didn’t hesitate. To men built for execution, not mercy.

She hadn’t chosen that.

She’d reacted.

The hold was textbook. Brotherhood training, third-year combat protocols. But the speed—the precision—that was calibrated. Targeted. She hadn’t learned to disarm any opponent.

She’d learned to disarm me.

That’s what they’d done in that hospital room. Built it into her.

I took a single step toward her. Slow. Careful.

Her shoulders flinched. Not from fear of me. From fear of herself.

“They did this,” I said.

Her eyes lifted to mine. Wet. Furious. Still Anna.

“They didn’t finish,” she said. “I stopped it before they could.”

But we both knew better. Stopped didn’t mean undone.

I’d gotten her out. Too late.

Time didn’t move normally after that.